


Heart of Glass, Melted

by Hambone



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Forced Orgasm, Gang Rape, Humiliation, Knotting, M/M, Necrophilia, Religious Guilt, Self-Flagellation, Shame, Unrequited Love, Violent Sex, Vomiting, Whipping, beastiality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 06:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16080536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: Captured by the Vilebloods, Alfred is broken.





	Heart of Glass, Melted

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty rough but you know I've been having a pretty rough week and I needed some catharsis. Hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

    “Filth! Vile monstrosities! Unholy spawn of bloodsick beasts!”

    He spat and gnashed his teeth, legs flailing behind him as he was dragged by the arm and the hair across the floor, again. His robes were tattered and bloodied, his body bruised and slashed, but Alfred fought on as he had for the past uncountable days and nights in this hellhole, locked away from the sun and moon and time itself. He refused to allow them a moment’s peace when he was in their presence, and even while shackled he put up an impressive struggle, jerking the shoulders of his captors harshly, making them stumble as he was pulled into the hideously gaudy throne room.

    Annalise, the queen of these wicked blasphemers, perched there, a vulture watching a future meal approach. She laughed at him, and her leeches laughed with her. He had come here to kill her, given a letter by a man he’d seen as a friend, only to find the den crawling with Vilebloods, not dead at all! Or perhaps they had all once been, for he knew his Master could not have failed, but her evil had been so potent that it drew fresh blood to her side regardless. Where his Master was he did not know, though he was sure, certain, that He was somewhere that needed Him more, serving a greater purpose. It brought him a thrill of glee to think that this foul lady of sin, who held herself in such high regard, was not as important as she believed. It made the process easier.

    Alfred was dumped on his raw knees before her. When he was first brought here he had tried to stand, even after being beaten down repeatedly, because he would never kneel to the she-demon, but now he found his bones too stiff to try. It didn’t stop him from staring her directly in the eyes, a sneer parting his cracked lips.

    “What will you have me for now, wretch?”

    One of the men who had carted him in kicked him in the gut hard enough to make him bow, a drizzle of bloody bile spilling past his lips. The queen smiled, casually crossing her legs.

    “Ah, the so-called Executioner. Still unwilling to break for Us, today?”

    “I,” Alfred swallowed the rest of his vomit, thin from lack of food, “will never submit myself to you, monster!”

    She hummed pleasantly, clearly unsurprised and unperturbed by his answer. The other Vilebloods, stood guard by her throne or merely watching from the sidelines, murmured amongst themselves, shifting with anticipation. He knew too well at this point what to expect here. It had been what he could only assume to be a daily ritual for the cruel cult to bring him before their queen and batter him for hours on end. It amused them all greatly, him being their new toy, and the crowd had only grown as the visits progressed, more men and women coming to watch or take part in scrapping him.

    This did not crush him, as Annalise may have hoped. Rather the opposite; a man could never be a true martyr if he did not suffer, after all. Master Logarius had been thought of as a martyr for his grand and holy assault on this sick haven, though perhaps he could not truly be considered one as he was nowhere to be seen at this point. Still, the very idea of being elevated to a position so close to his beloved saint was enough to make Alfred’s heart sing with glory, and only strengthened his resolve hundredfold. These Vilebloods could do as they wished to him, and while his body slowly was crushed to a pulp beneath their whips and chains, his soul grew in brilliance. The fools, so entangled in their earthly love of blood and sin, could never understand this holy purpose he served.

    “We did not expect such blessed idiocy from one as wed to the church as thou art, but it makes the game all the more pleasurable for Us.”

    It would perhaps have been smarter to have not given her the satisfaction of response, but Alfred was passion in human form, and he puffed his breast and rose to meet her gaze yet again.

    “You may do anything you wish with my earthly vessel, and it will matter not! As my Holy Master before me, I stand with my faith at my back, a tower of unending support, and will not fall to you or any other enemy of ours!”

    Annalise smiled, leaning her proud chin upon the back of a fist and observing him. He hated her eyes, dark and twinkling with the belief of arcane knowledge, thinking she could see into his true self. His body filled with such strength against her that it was as if her wits clashed physically with his, but he could almost feel the weight of His hand upon his shoulder, as it once was, holding him fast and true.

    “We attest that it will be a true shame when thou dost break, and the fun is at an end.”

    “Ha!” Alfred threw his head back theatrically and bellowed his defiant laugh to the cobwebbed pillars, an echo of it returning back so many times it were as though an entire chorus of men laughed with him. “If your pitiful attempts at breaking and shaking me have failed so far, do you really believe they will miraculously succeed in the future? Pathetic!”

    Blood and foam flecked from his lips in his excitement, his cheeks blooming red.

    “I have the strength of the true Gods at my back! My Master’s teachings have purified me! You could never dare to touch my true spirit, much less defile it. Try your weak speeches with me no more, for you only waste your own foul breath!”

    She did not seem bothered by him, as she never did, but it did not matter. Alfred knew, in his heart of hearts, his own righteousness.

    “Disrobe him.”

    It was not unusual for them to remove his clothing for a beating. Anything between their fists and boots and his flesh was a hindrance, and they enjoyed the humiliation it caused him to be seen in God’s born form, and to chill him to the bone in the frigid air that permeated everything here. He was sure that, if it would not kill him, they would leave him this way all the time, exposed to the elements and prying eyes. He did not let it cut his will, and kept his glare locked to the Vileblood queen as he was tugged about, his already ruined wardrobe being torn down to strips as they shredded his shelter away.

    Even before coming to this awful place, his back had been laced with scars wrought by the lash. It was not uncommon for the men under Master Logarius to adhere strictly to the rule of mortification of the flesh, taking their discipline into their own hands, and even sometimes, should their sin be truly great, the Master Himself had assisted in their flagellation. Alfred, being a devout and pious follower of his Master, had never required this extra step when tending to his penitence, but, when he was in his quarters, the lash bloody upon his back, he had felt the hand of his Master at work. It was only with the most pious of loyalties he fantasized. If only such purity had, at one point, broken him apart so violently, with so much care, only to put him back together, the right way. It made the act a pleasure beyond description.

    So when they brought the whip to his back now, he bore it easier than most. It had but one tongue, which meant that it hit with more strength but with less coverage than the discipline had. He ground his teeth together until his temples ached, but he did not cry, even when the third stroke broke the scabs from his previous encounters here and blood, molten against his frozen skin, ran along his spine and thighs. He clasped his hands before him, cuffed together as they were, and began to recite the prayers of The Healing Church in a low, unsteady voice.

    “Our thirst for blood satiates us, soothes-!”

    Another crack upon his back brought a gasp between his words, but he did not stop.

    “Soothes our fears! Seek the old blood, but-!”

    The next lash had him stuttering discomfort, and his hands shook, but he did not falter.

    “Beware the frailty of men! Our thirst for-!”

    Again and again he paused in prayer only to hold his tongue when the whip landed, voice rising until it rang from the rafters with each repetition of the holy word. At this point the Vilebloods were stirring in their robes, nudging at one another, but Alfred was unable to perceive anything but the whip’s bite and the light it brought into him.

    When they stopped, Alfred was hunched forwards over his clasped hands, his bleeding shoulders squared against the onslaught. He did not stop his prayer, even when the men backed away, and the blows of the lash changed to bodily blows, the once-Hunters kicking him over, perhaps frustrated by his refusal to be tamed, perhaps merely excited by the violence, planting their boots on the open wounds and grinding grit and snow into his flesh. Alfred hollered his praise still, broken and high with pain. Froth formed at the corners of his lips, his eyes red and wide and manic, seeing only his own approaching sainthood.

    “Enough!”

    Annalise’s voice cut through the room like a wave, and her vicious disciples were washed away by it. All movement ceased. Alfred, however, did not, empowered by their inability, bellowing over her until one of the Vilebloods at his side, given a wave of the hand by his queen, kicked him squarely in the face. There was a crack, and Alfred’s nose burst with blood, likely broken. The inside of his mouth, already lined with sores, was slashed by his own teeth as he bit himself, and at least one of his incisors chipped, though he could hardly tell which as he spat out the chunk along with a small bit of his inner cheek. His holy righteousness was not dampened, but he was stunned, blinking back stars, and it shut him up long enough for the Vileblood queen to speak once more.

    “We must ask, foolish one, how thine madness persists.”

    It was obvious to everyone but Alfred that her question was in jest, but he raised his dripping face to hers again, muscles quivering with the effort.

    “Ha! The siren wishes to know the secrets of the cloth, hm?” He spat another gob of blood out, pulse pounding so that even the smallest wounds gushed. “Master Logarius is at my side, always. There is no stronger pillar with which to anchor my faith!”

    “Is there not?”

    Something about his words amused her.

    “Thine wretched master could not even complete his singular mission, and yet thou keepest him in such high regard?”

    Temple creased with rage, Alfred snarled bestially.

    “You know nothing of my Master! Do not _dare_ speak of Him in vain!”

    Her laugh rolled her head about her shoulders, the rest of her spawn joining in. Alfred bared his pink stained teeth, breath puffing from his nostrils.

    “We are privy to more knowledge than thou may assume.”

    Alfred meant to ask her what she meant, but all that came from him was a bestial snarl.

    “Hm,” she said, “A voice befitting thy place. Thou willst bend to our glory yet.”

    One of the Vileblood Hunters from the sidelines approached, taking over for the one who had lashed him. Alfred expected more blows but was shocked when the man knelt at his back, breath hot enough to be felt through his bleeding.

    “What’s this-!” He snapped, sitting up against the indignity, and was immediately grabbed by the back of the head and pushed down again. His already fractured nose was, thankfully, spared the stone floor, but strong, gloved fingers curled in his hair, keeping him pinned in a position so taught it felt as though the seams of his wounds would split until his skin fell off him like a loose vest. He had to again grind his jaws together to ward off the weakness of calling out, but his eyes stung wet. He blinked it away rapidly, dispelling the water out into his lashes. To cry, at something like this? How ashamed his Master would be.

    Yet this was not to be the worst by far. He knew this as soon as the Hunter’s other hand, bare, planted its palm upon the base of his spine. There were few wounds here, but it was a dangerous position no less, and the man’s touch was with intent. Alfred could not see if an interaction was made, silently, for the way his eyes were kept to the floor, but there was a momentary pause before the hand slid down, through the slick of his blood, and breached the cleft of his ass.

    Alfred attempted again to jerk away, almost forgetting where he was in the shock of the crude manner of the Hunter. Out of all the touches intended to cause him injury, none had ever sought out this part of him. Two wet fingers moved as one, rubbing tenderly down the line till they found his hole. There they pressed, not enough to penetrate but enough to threaten it, and then, as Alfred attempted to splutter out some words of rebuttal, they retraced their path upwards.

    “I-I say-! This filth is even beyond wh-what I would have expected from-!”

    He bit his lip, more from the shock of the sensation than anything, when the fingers again descended, circling his pucker with practiced teasing movements, and then again rose. This was repeated three more times before he was able to push back the modest and moral shock born of his churchly upbringing and put real words to his anger.

    “Your sickness has spread far beyond your hearts! How dare you try to defile me in such a way!”

    There was no way for him to look up, and he ached for it, desperate to see a face, know what was being thought of him. There was quiet commotion, movement, but no voices were loud enough to be heard, and the queen was silent as death. Were they still laughing at him, there, with their pinched, blood rich faces? Did they think this act of violence against him would somehow dirty his soul?

    “Do you think I fear you?”

    Now it were as though his words were lost on the cold floor, because the man continued to touch, and he was left blinded and confused. He jerked his head again, struggling to pull away, but his limbs were dead weight without the benefit of sleep or food. Perhaps to quieten his struggles, the pattern changed; one finger was twisted rudely into his ass. Alfred baulked, eyes bulging, the unfamiliar sensation crisscrossing his senses for a moment. Where more rage had been set to spill from his lips, only a gasp was released.

    The finger pistoned in and out efficiently, leaving no time for adjustment. It was beyond his comprehension how he, a man who had taken more blades to the skin than most and lived, could find so much sudden and powerful sensation from a single digit, but for its size it felt all the world as if he had been skewered with a hot poker. Naked and chained, he could not tear himself away, no matter how he tried, and another harsh yank on his scalp and a second finger squirming in beside its brethren kept him so addled he could focus on nothing else. His mouth fell open as he drew in gulps of air like a drowned man, struggling to catch hold of himself. It hurt, it was unnatural, it was rough and cruel and wrong, and yet the man knew clearly exactly how to touch, how to pull him apart. Despite the reek of ichor he knew he had not been torn, and there was something, something awful, about that lack of true destruction that kept the feeling on the blade of excruciation and something stranger.

    “R-release me!” He ordered this to the crowd of boots he could just make out in his peripheral vision, but his tone shook enough to reveal his uncertainty.

    Alfred knew of sodomy. All good men of the Executioners clan knew of the evils they might find in the wild, when the world had been so twisted by rampant and unholy blood use. It was a nasty act on its own, and lead the way for men to engage in truly cardinal sins. Though he had never seen a man condemned for it in his time, many an older brother of the cloth had stories of men and women caught in their youth, split on the pear and burned for it. Their descriptions had been visceral and disgusting, and captured Alfred’s mind with their rampant lack of respect for the Gods or the Great Ones.

    Alfred also knew he had dreamt of it before. Just as with the lash, Alfred found, when hearing of these old cases, ideas forming in the part of him he knew could never speak its mind. He did not find the idea of what he was told particularly capturing on its own, but the thought of sin, dirty sin, rough sin, sin punishable by death, by Hell eternal, stoked the coals of his belly. These were thought he was never allowed to entertain, never admitted to having. He pushed them back with revulsion every time they surfaced, and yet they returned, always. He told himself it was the ideal of His holy retribution that made the ideas so tempting, for who would not be brought to their knees by the glory of righteous execution? That was the entire premise of their sect, after all.

    The Master would stand above him, taller than any man he had ever seen before, a giant, holding His wheel above Alfred’s bared and pinned legs for a bare moment, asking if he knew truly how wrong he had been, waiting for his answer, solemnly bowing His head to seek Alfred’s eyes out and know the truth of his words. Then He would drop the wheel, shattering bone and flesh beneath it, crushing him, moving up a notch and crushing again. The steel and wood housing of the wheel, dropped from such a height, would mash his flesh to a pulp. It would be pure, unadulterated agony, the most agonizing death he could be promised. And it would be a slow one, too, as his Master moved over his prone figure, dropping it over each weak joint, each bundle of surface nerves, until Alfred was a writhing mess of gore and bone chips, begging for the next blow to be to his throat or chest, to stop his heart and free him from the exquisite torment.

    Behind him, a gruff voice whispered into his ear.

    “Tight like a choir boy should be, but ye’ sure took to it quick.”

    He had lost himself, both in fantasy and in dignity. This time the man let his head whip up in surprise, the realization that he had been- he had-

    Between his legs, his half hard cock dully throbbed.

    “A-ah-!”

    Everyone’s faces were turned to him, but in shadow, for it was so dark outside his dreams. Eyes darting back and forth, Alfred’s mind jittered, trying to catch himself back from this tricky precipice.

    “Y-you fiend!”

    The man behind him laughed throatily, but no one else made a sound, not one he could hear over his racing heartbeat. The fingers in him twisted again, flexing to spread him wide, and he gnashed his jaw badly, splitting into his already split tongue as the smallest, humblest of yelps escaped him.

    Queen Annalise smiled wider.

    “If this- if this is all you have in store for me-e,” he coughed to cover himself as another tug inside tortured him, “you will yet again fail!”

    “Dost thou test Us, Executioner?”

    The doors behind him opened, the bellow of the wind outside deafening him from his own anguish for a moment. He was most exposed at that angle, he knew, and whoever, or whatever, was approaching saw now his private sin. What was worse, the shock of freezing air bit the most intimate membranes of his innards, held open by cruel fingers, spread, and it lanced yet another horrible sensation of pain and unfortunate pleasure through him, and he felt his muscles spasm and twitch in an attempt to close up.

    Many feet entered the room, several ringing with heavy armor, and four with the shuffling, soft pad of an animal. Alfred’s nerves were still keen from his days hunting, and he recognized the sound, the rotten scent, of a beast long before the stink of uneven breathing was able to travel to his ears through the snow. Tramping in from the cold, the Vilebloods behind him tugged on heaving chains, ushering the muleing creature into the room. Upon seeing the gathering, it screamed, an unearthly and blood curdling howl that did not echo back as a man’s voice might but simply flung itself to the void of shadow in every corner of the room and hung there, aching in his ears long after passing.

    “Willst thou still hold thine head with pride once bestial flesh one has tasted?”

    His brain was torn between the threat of her words and the threat quickly approaching him from behind. He expected the men at his sides to leave him there but they did not move, presenting his back to the thing with the only sign of fear in them a slight tensing of the muscles. The fingers, dug into his ass still, holding him wide and pink, did not budge. Humiliation warred with horror for dominion over his heart, but no winner could be named before a waft of warm, fetid breath rolled over him. It seemed to sink into the heaving cracks in his back like tiny claws, stinging wherever it touched.

    “No…!”

    Finally, all men but the one at his behind stood back quickly, parting as the thing came to a halt. A wet nose nudged his spinal column, tasting his spilled blood. Needle like whiskers bore into his skin where they touched, catching on the edges of his lash marks and cutting them deeper. There was fur, claws clicking on the stone. The beast jerked forwards towards the back of his neck and roared again when whatever it was being held by prevented it from taking his head off. It snapped its teeth together until its jaw clacked against its housing, the pads of its feet landing so close to his own, but it did not rear back to strike again. Alfred realized he was breathing so fast air was hardly permeating his lungs, but he couldn’t stop. Never, in all his days as a Hunter, in all his nights as an Executioner, had he ever considered something this vile. Even his own dreams of sin did not cross this line. Blood bubbled into foam over his nose and upper lip as he hyperventilated.

    “No!”

    The reeking muzzle pushed to his back again, this time taking in his scent more slowly. A few times it pushed to close and he felt the smooth cold of teeth graze his wounds. Then its attention drew lower.

    “No! No! Get this- this beast away from me-!”

    He couldn’t help himself. Even those martyred in the most cruel of ways in the annuls of history had not experienced such disgrace. The blood had led it right where they wanted, to his open hole, to the human shame he could not escape. It inhaled him there, deeply, and he finally, with a great loss of hair, ripped himself from the hands of the last man to hold him.

    “Sick, sick heathens-!”

    On his manacled wrists and mangled knees, he bent and crawled, Gods pity him, crawled towards the court of onlookers, away from the hell behind him, and they let him. They were laughing, he knew they were laughing. He got about three feet before the men released their hold on the beast and it plunged forwards, mounting him in an instant.

   The beast was huge, frost melting on its fur still as it wrapped its arms around his broad chest, squeezing until his ribs ached, hips splayed around his. It’s cock, unholy, repulsive, speared down at him, missing the first time and stabbing instead at his perineum, and even the flare of its head felt enormous. The second time its aim was almost true, sliding across his hole but not quite making it in. the slip of its wet cock past his balls made them jump, a pinch of pleasure next to a pound of pain. He tried the prayer again.

    “Our thirst for blood-!”

    The next time it did not miss. Alfred’s words were cut off by vomit as the tip pushed against his hole, prepared but not enough, harder than a fist, than a dull blade trying to enter flesh. There was nothing within him but blood and acid, and with his broken nose it felt like he was drowning in his own bile, and his eyes rolled back because the beast was still pushing and his body still would not give and it hurt so immensely he wished for nothing more than to have taken his own life in the cell and worried about forgiveness later.

    “Oh, Master!” he sobbed, through snot and blood and bile and tears that had pushed past every one of his good manners. With a grunt from the beast, the head popped inside.

    His head bowed low, pressing his forehead to the tile, blackness eating away at him for a long, still while.

    The beast pushed again, its great haunches twitching forwards in micro attempts to force the rest of its slimy cock deep. He had been torn now, he must have been, because Alfred was thrown back inside himself by the force of his suffering, the stretch massive, unreal. His body was cleaved in two in a way no weapon he’d yet encountered could achieve. As soon as he could breathe again, he howled like a beast himself, a creature of woe and outrage.

    It succeeded, inching its massive girth deeper with each jerk of its hips. His hands were turned to one another in their chains, and he could do nothing but claw at his own skin, trying to ease one pain with another. His back heaved, blood clotting along the lash bites. Above his head the shadow of the beast loomed, stinking drool dripping from its lips before his face. It was Hell, true Hell, and he was pinned here as an insect on a corkboard.

    Yet still, even as he was consumed with grief, his cock throbbed between his legs. As the beast pushed in to the impasse of the knot, squeezed so tightly he could feel its unsteady heartbeat through their connection, his own pulse jumped to his throat. It hurt supremely, it was mortifying, it was pure torture, but he was fully hard now. Rivulets of slick fluid from the creature mixed with his drying blood, running pink between his thighs. The beast’s heavy balls swung against his ass as it ground into him proudly, snarling to the court to stake its claim. There was some texture to its piece, adding to the discomfort, and to an even more unfortunate remaining excitement that stirred in him still. Some sort of knobs, or dulled barbs, poking and prodding his every nerve. His stomach felt itchy and tight, and as he turned his head to the cool tile to try and breathe again, he saw, with horror, the distention of his gut where the beast’s cock showed through. In response to the sight his own dick quivered, precum leaking clear and bright from the tip. Ruined, he was ruined.

    Then the beast began to pull out, and as slick as its unnatural sex was, it still felt as though it was going to pull him inside-out and he screeched again, not expecting it. This did nothing to dissuade the animal, which grunted pleasurably as Alfred’s muscles spasmed around it. When it slammed back into him, he was pushed forwards across the floor by the force. It was a blessing at first, because it kept the enormous cock from fully reentering him, but then it snarled, as though the fault was Alfred’s, and wrapped its ungainly arms around his waist, pulling him back and spearing him fully.

    It was so deep in him that Alfred felt as though there was nothing it didn’t reach, for his heart, his lungs, even his mind were affected by it. After the second, or third, or eighth thrust he managed to calm his screaming enough to keep from blacking out, the spots swimming in his eyes making nausea rise again in his throat, but he swallowed it, along with an unhealthy amount of his own blood, and gasped for air. The beast’s head lowered, and it lapped at his crusted back while it fucked him, mindlessly taking everything he could offer it. As its teeth again grazed him he wondered if it would kill him in the act, swallow his head whole even while its frenzy continued, if his corpse would bleed out in the Vileblood court with an animal still implanting its seed in his barren belly.

    “How now, waif of the church? Dost thou still find thy Master’s love so fair?”

    Alfred could hardly see through his tears, but he knew her contemplable shape well. He raised his head as best he could, bobbing from the force of the beast’s ardor, and poured all his raw hatred into his gaze. It took him a few tries to speak, for his voice was hoarse and raw, and every powerful thrust made him want to scream.

    “Always!” he cried, unwavering. “Always!”

    “Yet thou are not saved.”

    “My soul is saved!”

    The beast pulled him back particularly hard and his speech petered off to a wail, thighs spreading wide as he was practically flattened by the blow.

    “Is it?” She spoke so calmly and he despised her for it. “When thou showest such uncouth enthusiasm for the beast’s attentions?”

    Even hunched beneath a mass of hide, they could see his pleasure bobbing, spewing precum freely with each reaming thrust inside him. He wanted to beat his face to the ground and never look up again, for his shame, but he could not allow her to win this. He wouldn’t.

    “My Master,” he croaked out, “Has shown me purity! I will not – I will not break!”

    “Purity?” she asked innocently, “Thou are truly in belief that, were your precious master to see you now, he would agree?”

    Alfred could not answer. Master Logarius was elsewhere, gone. He had no need to answer. To suffer was the martyr’s proof of faith, and he would endure, and he would die, and it would end. He could make it to that finale. He blinked blood and sweat from his eyes and peeled his lips from his teeth in a grimace. The beast’s cock stirred him around, pushing endlessly on bundles of sensitive nerves, until he ached from that alone, and it was all he could do to remain conscious.

    “Methinks thy dream of reunion shall be realized sooner than thou may know.”

    A pair of servants, hunched and shriveled things, approached the throne, bearing a large item beneath a darkly embroidered cloth. It was placed on a small table beside the queen, heavy enough to make the ancient wood creak. Alfred could not understand her words, nor what was being done before him, only watching through blurred vision and listening through his own desperate grunting.

    “Though We are loathe to compare our bloodlines,” she said, “thy master did have some ungodly thing in common with Us.”

    “N-never,” Alfred spat, unable to think his words through. She ignored him.

    “Not by birth, but by the life that was lead since, he came to know a state of immortality such as Ours. But for thy blind master, fate was not so kind.”

    His eyes rolled in his skull, darting between her and the thing. What had she done.

    “Look, then, upon thy beloved holy one, and see the folly of your faith.”

    She pulled the cloth away, and on the table Master Logarius’s empty eye sockets beheld Alfred’s sorry state. It was His head, cut jaggedly from its place upon His shoulders, massive for a man, but not as He had been when He’d left Yharnam. His hair had grown long and matted, stained white by time, or age. His skin, green with death, devoid of moisture, sucked tight to his skull, baring His teeth in a ghoulish grimace. It was Him, though, undoubtedly, Him.

    Alfred screamed.

    Before he had cried for hurt, for shame, for rage. The sorrow that now poured from his lungs was no human sound. It was as if the Heavens themselves cried through him, for there was nothing more terrifying than a man of such immense power reduced to but a husk. Alfred screamed, and screamed, until he was again faint and his world was black and he dropped his head to the floor and sobbed openly.

    “Fret not, wretched thing,” she said, oozing with glee, “for as We have claimed, this man lived beyond his mortal form.”

    The room pressed in on him, Vilebloods becoming too excited to remain on the sidelines any longer. Logarius’s head stared at him.

    “He may even watch you now.”

    No. No, by the good blood, no.

    And still the beast was rutting into him, and still the fire coiled tight in his groin. He clawed at himself, at the floor, tried to crawl away as if the monster’s cock didn’t chain them together. Master Logarius was defeated, defiled, chopped to bits and held by their enemies. Alfred would never stand beside His giant bearing again, never feel the touch of His weighty hand on his shoulder, never see Him red with gore on the battlefield, glowing with the glory of Heaven as He vanquished their foes, never again. His stern and handsome features were melted to history, nothing left but a butchered skeleton entombed in its own flaking skin. And here was Alfred, on his knees, bruised and failed, with a beast’s cock tearing him apart, leaking on the floor, ravished by it, gaping like a whore.

    When they got too close the beast snapped at them, refusing to lose its treat before it had been fully devoured, but the Vilebloods stayed just out of reach. One of them, bolder than the rest, came with bowed head to the queen and took Logarius’s head in his hands, the heft of it requiring much strength to hold. He brought it to Alfred, parting the crowd as they flung insults at him that fell upon unseeing eyes and unhearing ears. He could no longer bear to know anything but his Master.

    “Look at him.”

    Alfred refused, head down, shaking with the force of his anguish.

    “Don’t you want to see your glorious master?”

    His hands, once clasped in prayer, now wound together in a vice simply to beg. For what else could one so thoroughly fallen from grace do, but beg?

    “Oh,” he sobbed, eyes squeezed shut, “forgive me, forgive me, forgive me!”

    They all laughed and swayed. The man from before, who had fingered him open, who held no fear of being bitten, knelt again at his side and grasped what was left of his raggedy hair to yank his head upright. Alfred did not fight back, but refused him, refused to see. Discolored spittle fell from the beast’s maw across his naked neck as it snarled ferociously, pace increasing.

    “Still hard,” said the man, his other hand sliding down Alfred’s bloated stomach and grasping his cock unabashedly, “from a beast’s knob.”

    “No,” he tried to protest, but choked on his own saliva and tears and wretched dryly.

    “Or is it because your master sees you?” he asked, giving Alfred a painful squeeze, “Do you like that? Do you like him knowing you’re as sick as you claim we are?”

    Alfred didn’t respond, face ugly and red as it contorted with sadness.

    “He’s watching you, rutted by a beast, little church boy. Does that make you happy?”

    No, it didn’t. Wrecked and ruined before Him, Alfred couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear how dirty he really was, because it was true, and his erection jumped in the man’s hand to prove it. The fullness in his ass pressed and pulled in horribly pleasurable ways, the misery of his torn muscles only adding to his satisfaction. He had brought this on himself, he realized, for in his fantasies of Logarius’s holy punishment he had taught himself to conflate the agony with the ecstasy. Or perhaps the sin in him was an even older one, for it was true that he had joined the Executioners only once he had seen Him, standing taller than the crowds of the vile around them, a beacon of truth and justice, drenched in blood and panting with the exertion of slaughter.

    Alfred knew then that he deserved this. He had been filth all along, hadn’t he?

    “You love your master so much,” said another man, throaty and grey, “Why don’t you show him?”

    His eyes finally peeled open when something soft brushed his cheek, only for him to moan with horror as he realized it was Logarius, his face held intimately close, their hair falling together.

    “Show him, kiss your master.”

    He tried to shake his head but was held fast, muttering high little sounds of revulsion. Then the beast thrust in particularly hard and his protests were drowned out by his own cries as his eyes rolled back.

    “No more, please-!”

    His Master’s lipless mouth was pressed forcefully against his cheek, mocking him. Did it still hold life, somehow? Did his Master live, if one could call it that, to see him debauched? Without meaning to he looked into the lack of eyes, beheld the shriveled muscle, black with age and frostbite. How long had He been here, like this, while Alfred fooled around in the town like an idiot trying to find his way here?

    Once he stared, he could not stop, the motions of the beast pushing him to graze against Logarius’s mummified skin. Ruined, and yet so close. This was closer than Alfred had ever been to the man, to His face, even withered and rotten, and he was still awed by His aura. It was too late for them both.

    “I’m sorry,” he wept, clenching down on the beast hard, “I’m so sorry.”

    Shaking with effort, he let hands grasp his chin, angle him upwards so as to get a better view. Lips pursed, he chastely kissed His jawline, once, and the touch burned like holy water to a demon.

    “Tha’s right,” someone said.

    “No,” said another, “kiss him proper.”

    “You wish it was him, don’t you, slut, wish it was him hanging over you like a beast?”

    Alfred rubbed his face against His, seeking comfort that was not there, would never have been there, because he was a sinner.

    “Never, I cou-could never-!”

    “Liar.”

    “Slattern.”

    “Lying like all the church folk do!”

    “I’m not worthy,” he hiccupped, sniffling pathetically, bubbles of blood and snot leaking from his broken nose. They pushed Logarius’s teeth to his lips again, smearing his gross bodily fluids upon His pristine purity.

    “You wanted this.”

    “All that talk, it’s obvious.”

    They weren’t entirely wrong. To haven been pinned down and rent apart by his Master’s might would have been exquisite, a death he had prayed for, the truth he had whipped himself bloody for. How wonderful to die under His guidance, to give Him what titillation Alfred could offer with his mere mortal body.

    “No,” he begged, but he couldn’t stop the moan that followed after, nor the way he ran his tongue along the sinew of His jawline, tasting the sour rot, drooling, needy. The beast’s cock almost felt as if it were growing in him, splitting him apart, but it felt good too and he hated everything about himself for it. It was so big, so powerful. Every thrust pounded as if into his heart, and every sensitive bundle of nerves was caught on and rubbed mercilessly by its ridged phallus. Logarius would have been different. Logarius was a man, infinitely kind and infinitely cruel. There would have been no animal rutting with Him, no scrabbling hands and ill practiced poking. It was sacrilege to even dream of but Alfred knew it, truly knew, that should dear Master Logarius have ever deigned to take hands to him, it would have been a show of control and might that would have left him a broken, yet healed mess. He would be torn down and rebuilt, for every act He committed was one with the intention to make their world a better one. Even for ill-educated, low birthed sinners like himself. That was His true glory.

    And Alfred had stayed behind, and Logarius had, for all intents and purposes, died alone.

    Alfred came, sobbing hideously, orgasm rocking the soul from him. His hips attempted to buck, unable to even accomplish that as he remained speared on the beast’s cock. Long spurts of cum splashed along the stone tile, along his own thighs. His eyes remained open the entire time, even as all his other senses failed him, fixed on his Master’s once proud face. The rapture that washed through him was so agonizingly powerful that Alfred thought, hoped, that he would die.

    Even as he quaked with it, cock twitching in an attempt to release more, balls drawn tight, the beast sped its pace, howling. It was too much at once, and Alfred cried and wailed and tried to crawl away again but there was nothing he could do. His body was entirely unable to cope with the assault on his senses, only amplifying the feelings that already threatened to draw and quarter his mind like the criminal it was, but darkness simply refused to take him and he remained in horrible limbo, writhing. Unable to even keep his head held aloft, he lay on the cold floor, pushed and pulled by the beast’s movements, nuzzling at Logarius’s corpse for forgiveness he knew would be denied him.

    It continued. The crowd grew bolder, descending upon him as the beast remained largely docile, preoccupied with its own release. They pulled at his hair, his wounds, picking at his scabs just to lap the blood from their fingers. Between his legs, around his hole, tracing the rim even as he was fucked into. Before he would not shame himself with begging, wouldn’t have ever stooped so low, but now his tongue only remained still because his orgasm had stripped him of everything human he had left within him. He was no better than the creature above him, panting and slobbering and seeking only to indulge.  

    When the beast did cum, hours, days, years, seconds later, Alfred was drawn to scream again, but by now his voice was nothing but a whiny rattle against the stump of Logarius’s throat. The base of its cock began to swell, locking itself inside him like a dog. There was nothing he could do but take it, his whore of a body attempting to rouse his own cock into cumming once again, but it was too soon and he was too dry and all it did was hurt. He was flooded, stretched wider and hotter, bloated like the bloodsuckers outside. It was fitting; he was just as irreparably broken as they were.

    The excitement around him began to die down, once they were done laughing at his impalement. Alfred took no notice of it, even when they parted and a sickly red dress dragged across his vision.

    “Any pretense of thy piety thou hast forsook.”

    His eyes, dead and pale, did not follow her movements. Even when Logarius was lifted away, he did not move.

    “Our words again show truth,” she said, “as they did when the last of thy kind fell to Us before.”

    Naked in a puddle of his own fluids, he knew nothing. Annalise looked down at him, high above, the conqueror.

    “Thou hath knelt.”


End file.
